A Single Eye (3 page)
“Whyâ”
He grasped the bell and lifted it with such balance it made no sound. “Darcy, keep an eye open.” “An eye open” was another of the quirky American expressions that amused him, the single eye saving half the ocular effort. But there was no humor in his voice now. “Be alert,” he said, and rang the bell.
Questions flooded my mind. But the interview was over. I bowed to him, fluffed the cushion for the next student, bowed to the Buddha, and opened the door and left. The next student, a pediatrician with an office down the block, stepped inside. I didn't know what Yamana-Roshi had been thinking a minute ago, but now, he wasn't thinking of me at all; his whole attention would be on the pediatrician.
Tell Garson I know what he is planning and he must not do that
. What could that mean? A student disappeared six years ago. Why was that such a big deal? After gearing up to go to sesshin, students rarely leave, but it does happen that a guy can't deal with sitting in front of a blank wall hour after hour, or a woman gets fed up and stalks off. People leave zendos; people leave Zen practice. No one hears from them again. They don't get entire sesshins in their honor. And roshis a continent away don't send desperate messages.
Tell Garson I know what he is planning and he must not do that
.
I needed to talk to Yamana, but he had said all he would. And the redeye waits for no woman.
Y
ou can get a cab at any time of night in Manhattan, but hailing one at 3:30
A.M.
and carrying a suitcase, a duffel bag, and a dog is like a reality show challenge. Duffy is a proper Scottish laird, but he's still a small black dog with a big head, a loud bark, and teeth that would be at home in the mouth of a wolfhound. I had finally backed him into his carrier and given him my iPod. He'd either like the music or the taste.
When we got to LaGuardia, the iPod was intact and Duffy was a happy hound. I let him out and checked my bags at the curb. “And the dog?” the baggage handler said, readying another label.
“I'll carry him on.”
“Dog's too big for under the seat.”
“He's fine.”
The clerk gave me a you'll-be-back shrug.
But I was ready. If Duffy had been advertised on one of the used-dog Web sites his story would have read: “Previous owner moved to a place that doesn't allow pets.” His owner had been his handler, who had departed a location shoot in the sheriff's car. I had inherited Duffy.
Intelligence in a dog is a mixed blessing in apartment life, but in an airport crisis it can't be beat. Duffy is smart, and he loves to be onstage. He even has a S.A.G. card.
I paused outside the automatic doors to ticketing, bent down toward him eye to eye, my long red curly hair to his cropped black, and said, “Go small, Duff.”
He backed into the carrier, wriggled and curled. By the time he finished he was half his usual size. He had even mastered a way of putting his paws over the end of his snout that gave him the look of a cropped-nosed dog in prayer. I credit his former handler, who must have made many quick departures with hardly enough time to check luggage. I breezed through check-in, and as soon as I settled him under the seat I unzipped the carrier. It's against the rules, but, of course, I let him stick his head out; and, of course, he invited conversation as he eyed the aisle and the window-sitters' carry-ons as if they were unexpected deliveries to Balmoral.
United Airlines Flight 733, La Guardia to O'Hare, Monday, Nov. 10, 6:00
A.M.
EST
.
“I'm going to a two-week meditation retreat,” I said in answer to the dental technician, who was heading to Chicago for his trade show. He was midtwenties, and larger than the seat that squeezed him. He had glanced at Duffy and moved his feet almost into the aisle.
“You mean âstare at the wall' stuff?”
I nodded.
“All day long?”
I nodded.
“No C-SPAN, no MTV?”
I nodded.
“Not even radio? Or . . . or . . . even newspaper?”
“Nope.”
“Or . . .” he seemed to be grasping for a level of diversion even less entertaining.
I spared him. “Or talk. We don't talk.”
“Not talk? How can you go all day without talking? I mean, like, suppose there's something you've got to say?”
“You wait.”
“But two weeks? How can youâthat's crazy.” Immediately he saw he'd been rude, and he grinned in a manner that must have eased the late delivery of dentures and crowns. “I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
It wasn't till we started the descent into O'Hare that the woman on my other side lost her restraint. “I'm sorry,” she said. She looked to be around my age; like me, she was wearing blue jeans and a sweater. “I couldn't help overhearing when you were talking about the meditation place. Is that Zen Buddhism?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me for asking, but, well, tell me this. Why? I mean what's the point of all that meditation? I mean, what do you get out of it?”
I swallowed and plowed ahead. The traditional Zen answer is: âNothing. You don't get anything because you already have everything; it's just that you don't realize itâyet.'”
“Oh,” she muttered and turned to the window.
My next seatmate was about ten years older than Iâlate forties. On the tray table, her laptop waited, nagging. She wedged her feet between briefcase and a bulging shopping bag. “Guilt gifts,” she said. “It's so hard to leave Jake and the kids, even when I'm one of the speakers at the conference. What about you? Where are you headed?”
“A meditation retreat.”
“Can I come?” she asked, and laughed.
My oldest brother, John, met my plane. I was the youngest by far of us seven Lott children. I might be a grown-up with a successful career, but in the eyes of my family my job was still me just swinging from the roof and going to the movies instead of doing my homework. John wasn't surprised about the meditation retreat. Buddhism is common in San Francisco, though not in our family. Like my middle brother's cave-diving or my oldest sister's collecting commemorative salt and pepper shakers, it was an odd enthusiasm the family had accepted. What he said was, “You're doing it
where?
”
“At the Redwood Canyon Monastery a couple hours north of Santa Rosa. You don't need to take me, John. You've got a job. The Greyhound will drop me.”
“Redwood Canyon, north of Santa Rosa. The
woods?
”
I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“
You're
going to the woods for weeks? The fear thing is that serious?”
“Yes,” I forced out.
John sat open-mouthed. He started to say something and then rejected it.
“What?” I demanded, knowing it couldn't be the standard âwoods' comments; they had all been made many times over many years. My fear had been a joke in the family, but a gently handled one, as befits a failing of the baby. Mom had once referred to the older kids as her German shepherds, the policeman, the lawyer, the doctor, the journalist, and the teacher. Me she'd labeled a Labrador puppy.
“Well, Darcy, I guess Duffy's the one with the sense. He'll be halfway to China by the time you get back.”
“Starting his dig from San Francisco'll be a real boon.”
“Mom's fenced in the roses, had the butcher on the alert for a bone bigger than Duffy himself, and we're putting up directions to the Sierras for all the raccoons.” John grinned, but there had been another hesitation before his comment and I could read behind his cop's face to the unnerved brother. I wanted to say, “I'll be fine in the woods, John. Why this sudden worry?” But somehow, I, too hesitated. Instead, I took his shift of topic as a statement of support, gave him a big hug, and hopped out in front of the Greyhound station. As I unloaded my bags, John pulled Duffy into the front seat. I stuck my head in the window and Duffy braced his stubby front paws on my shoulders, laid his head on my shoulder and moaned. It was trick he had learned for a B-movie role, but it never failed to make me tear up. I swallowed hard, nuzzled his snout, and then the car pulled into traffic and I was left covered in sweat and an inch from fainting.
Six hours later, the Greyhound slowed and I jerked awake. Outside were tall trees, lots of them. I shivered, then jumped out onto the macadam. Still thinking of John, I forced myself to stare into the spaces between the redwoods and pines.
